


what you do behind closed doors

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Voyeurism, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:39:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Credence shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be watching this. But he can't tear himself away.





	what you do behind closed doors

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

Hand on the doorknob, every muscle in his body tensed to keep him still - Credence learned at a young age how to do it, how to stop even the quiver of an eyelash - but he never thought about doing it _here_.

Hell, Credence shouldn’t even _be_ here. He _should be_ in bed, upstairs, tucked in warm and safe with the glass of water at his bedside. Except he’d drunk it all and and was still thirsty and he’d come downstairs for more and-and-and…

A soft moan from behind the door has Credence jerking back like the knob is a livewire, skin suddenly burning as blood rushes to his face and - elsewhere. He bites his lip, clenching his eyes shut and trying to well up the courage to _move_ , to _leave_ , to do something _other_ than give in to his wicked desires. Another soft moan has Credence choking back a whine, teeth digging into the pink flesh of his lip and threatening to slice right through it. But that’s all he can do to stop himself, all he can do is keep quiet. It sucks up the last vestiges of his self control and leaves his perversion to run free.

Brain screaming, Credence reaches for the door handle again with quivering fingers, wrapping them around the cool bronze, and turns. It’s a testament to the care this house receives that a hundred-and-something year old door doesn’t squeak when it’s opened. It unlatches smoothly, inching inwards just a crack, and leaves Credence with just a sliver of space with which to peer into the room.

The hearth is aglow; shadows rise and fall over the study, casting it with warm oranges and the deepest darks. It spreads over the bookshelves and the oak desk and the sole occupant of the room, reclined in his arm chair. Credence presses his hand to his mouth suddenly, muffling the squeak that slips between his lips and flings itself into the open air. By some miracle of god, Graves doesn’t hear it.

He’s leaning back, powerful thighs spread wide. Credence follows the line of those thighs, the way the muscles cord and bunch, rippling beneath pale skin. He follows it down to the sharp jut of Graves’ knees, down over the swoop of thick calves to surprisingly delicate ankles. He swallows - Graves is still wearing his socks and garters, and it sets the kindling burning in Credence’s belly.

But it’s not only those beautiful legs that catch his attention. Graves’ robe, finely embroidered burgundy velour, lays open and forgotten against narrow flanks which heave and glisten with a fine sheen of sweat. Credence trails his gaze over the muscling of Graves chest, the dusting of silvering hair over his pectorals and belly. He stops short, breath catching in another shriek. He almost slams the door, almost flees, but catches himself just in time.

His heart is galloping like a spurred horse, so loud he almost misses Graves’ quiet panting - the gentle and needy whines that leave his lips. Graves’ hand moves over the girth of his cock slowly, thumbing the slick crown before pressing back down. It’s slow, and sensual, and Credence feels like he’s dying just watching, like his heart might stop any second.

“Agh… Agh…”

Percival’s head falls back against the armchair, mouth parting in a little whine. His hand stills over the head of his cock, hips bucking upwards in a half-hearted thrust. Credence bites down on his lip again, worrying sore and swollen flesh. He feels like he’s burning; watching a bead of sweat roll down Graves’ temple, the way his hair - raven dark and free of product - sticks to his pale skin.

Credence feels like he’s on the pyre and set alight, left to be consumed by the flames. His sudden desire to touch, to taste, to stride into the room and fall to his knees in front of Graves is like smoke - choking him, leaving him blind. But he can’t get away, rooted to the spot by muscles that seize and quiver. He’s left to watch. Only to watch.

Graves’ is falling apart. He hooks one thigh over the arm of the chair. The hand previously resting on his chest caresses down the line of his body, tugging at his dusky nipples and the ever so subtle softness of his belly before sliding south, to press against the tiny hole nestled between his plush cheeks. A whispered spell, and Graves is pressing a finger inside with a muted gasp. His hips surge into the contact, chasing friction. He moves between fucking his hand and his finger, adding another after what feels like an eternity to Credence.

And the sounds just keep coming; little gasps and moans and whimpers. They only add fuel to Credence’s wildfire. His hand twitches, like it wants to go to his groin, to relieve some of the pressure building up. But he _can't move_. He's left to smoke and singe and watch as this beautiful man takes himself apart before him. 

“O-oh, Merlin… Oh, _fuck_.”

Graves shatters suddenly, toppling over some invisible edge. He shows off the broken glass edge of his jaw and the cording in his neck as he paints his chest and stomach, ecstasy writing itself across his features. Credence imagines he’s clamping down on his fingers, overwhelmed by sensation.

It’s nearly enough to send Credence over himself, and he has to steady himself on the doorframe.

Except his hand slips, missing the frame and colliding with the door itself. The thing lurches forward suddenly, swinging wide and slamming into the wall with a muted _crack._

For a moment, there is absolute silence, like the house itself is holding its breath. Then -

“ _Credence_?!”

Graves stares at him in horror, two fingers still inside himself and his hand around his softening cock, come drying on his skin. His eyes blown wide with a strange cocktail of fading lust and terror, Graves looks like a fallen angel. All in one second, whatever was holding Credence rooted to the spot relinquishes its grip.

He flees.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave your thoughts! I live off feedback!


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